


Listless

by VillainousReaper



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Depersonalization Disorder, Depression, Gen, Humanstuck, Mental Instability, Schizophrenia, Second POV, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Starvation mentions, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 19:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1911126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousReaper/pseuds/VillainousReaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You regret sending your brother out for food, because you need him now more than ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listless

They're whispering. You can't comprehend their message, it all being a quiet and muffled slur of words, but they exist, hiding away in the back of your mind like fucking COWARDS. They claw at your skull from the inside, unnaturally long nails dragging down your inner flesh like thin razors through an envelope. It doesn't burn until after they've stepped away, then the fire begins, like the fire that starts in any other superficial wound after taking a few seconds to recognize that you got injured in the first place. It's normal, you think, because it's something you've dealt with before; multiple times before with less and less fear in your gut each moment this kind of thing rolls your way. The chills and pressure up and down your spine are normal. The feeling of blood pooling thickly around your brain stem is normal, as is the black form that constantly darts out of the corners of your eyes like a skittish and previously abused cat.

Normal. All of it.

The voices, the whatevers, escape your mind and run down into your chest, slinking along your nerves and muscle tissue. They crawl around, looking for a way out; they search endlessly for the escape you've been subconsciously searching for your whole life. A quiet chuckle falls from your lips, eyes fluttering shut. Gamzee glances over, more curious than anything, but you don't return the gaze. You can't. Almost did, actually, until the wisps gliding over your lungs strike, nails pressing into the fleshy bags of air that somehow keep you alive. _Don't look. He'll ask_. It causes your breath to hitch suddenly and choke out the smallest of whimpers.

Gamzee returned to the skull pipe under his temporary possession, lips wrapping around the mouthpiece as the flame of your lighter burned the already charred herb in the bowl. You can smell it, intoxicating and inviting as it fills the air. Your younger brother coughs momentarily and, on instinct, your hand flings up to pat his back.

It's not like you really mean to act so damn affectionate but it's been built into your physical being. Taking care of Gamzee has always been top priority, whether it be to keep him healthy, or to knock some sense into that jacked up pan of his.

He remains unphased, only waving a hand at you as signal that he’s probably okay. He always fucking does that and it irritates you to no motherfucking end, watching him cough violently like a lung is going ride up and out his mouth on a wave of bile and black tar.

You growl quietly, rolling your eyes in irritation as the voices get louder. _Speak up. Hit him. Beat him down._ It makes your hands tremble slightly, clasping them together in an attempt to keep the tremors hidden. Gamzee doesn’t need to know what the drugs are doing to you. He knows the basics of it. It makes them louder and easier to understand. That’s it. Lifting a hand, you snap your fingers and point at the notebook on your younger brother’s nightstand, open-palmed and waiting.

He retrieves it moments later after staring at you, befuddled and blank. Once the pad of paper is in your hand, you begin to scrawl down as many words as you possibly can that the other voices are rambling off, quick and muffled beneath the sound of the main one, the one telling you to sacrifice Gamzee. As if that’ll ever happen.

Over time, they get louder, beating down on the inner membrane of your skull to the point that you can’t take it anymore and whimper quietly. Gamzee doesn’t pay much attention to the noise, more or less falling asleep on your bed. Your eyes flick over to his long figure sprawled out lazily, as he normally is, and your brows furrow. He needs to get off your bed. He needs to get you food and leave you alone for the time being.

Wait, food. That makes your stomach growl, one of the first noises you’ve heard in a while that isn’t smoking or aggressive yelling in your head. Your gut rumbles eagerly at the mere thought of something being swallowed down. Even water would probably help at this point, though too cold could make you sick, as it usually does.

Oh the woes of being a tongue-less mute.

That sound, the one that mimics a growling bear also catches your younger brother’s attention, the 19-year-old immediately sitting up with a half worried, half grateful smile. If you’re hungry, that means you’re willing to eat, and this isn’t fasting period either so it’s obviously going to be okay, right?

“You all up and hungry now, bro? Motherfucker hasn’t eaten in days, right? Gotta get some food in that wicked gut o’ yours, ‘fore you start witherin’ away like when we was kids.” His tone is loose and languid with that rugged drawl you’ve grown so used to. Irritating, but soothing in an odd way.

Slowly, you nod, head tilting down so you can look at the stomach that’s repeating the same noise. God, that’s so infuriating. Your body should be used to you not eating at this point. You’re not able to eat often, anyway, and through the fasting periods, it’s surprising your body hasn’t adjusted after all these fucking years.

He rises to his feet and retrieves shoes, the key to the room and a bit of cash, all of that going into his pants pocket excluding the shoes, which are now on his feet, untied as always. “What does a brother want? Motherfucker ain’t gonna let you eat that vile shit in the cafeteria. Shit’s poison, man. Need somethin’ all downright delicious, like one of my miraculous pies.” Gamzee smirks at you, as if insinuating you’ll just eat pie all the time like he does. You shake your head. He frowns and groans like a child.

“Come oooon man. You know a brother’s always willin’ to make you some of that goodness.” Again, you shake your head. You can’t survive off sweets like he does. You need something that will fill you and be nutritious. Not saying his pies aren’t good, but it’s too much sugar in one sitting. Lifting your hands, you sign instead of letting him guess for the next 30 minutes. He nods eagerly and darts out the door, leaving you wrapped in eery silence that you’ve grown to hate so much. You’re used to it, yes, but you still hate it. Having Gamzee around, being his normal, talkative self, makes it easier to cope.

You already regret sending him out on a munch run.

How long has it been since he left? 10 minutes? 15 maybe? It could be way less. You weren’t paying attention to the time when he raced out the door to get food and, to be fair, you can’t really pay attention anyway. It’s too loud. Everything is too loud, even if it is on the inside. Your head throbs right around the frontal lobe, making you cringe up and close up your eyes nice and tight, like a little five year old girl listening to her parents fight. A twitch and it gets tighter, fists clenching up with pen in hand, like when you were young.

At this point, you’ve stopped writing as well. There’s no point in trying when all that comes out is scribbles instead of the cursive you’ve practiced years perfecting. And with you only being able to barely comprehend what’s written down once your episodes are over, it’s just lost time and wasted paper. It’s never anything important. Some of it starts off meaningful, like it’s really the Messiahs talking, then it strings off into everlasting bullshit about sacrificing those close, or sacrificing yourself. Not that you wouldn’t, because you know it’d help, but Gamzee needs you. Gamzee needs you and you need him. That’s just how it is.

Your uncle probably couldn’t survive without either of you, as if that’s something to count on. The Makara’s naturally treat each other like illiterate and unworthy shit, so his attitude is entirely expected. But deep down, you know he cares; you know he gives a damn. If he were here, he’d be all over you.

Another throb and you groan, tossing the thin notepad to the side, along with the pen you were using that is now halfway empty. Head in your hands seconds later, you begin rubbing at your eyes and then temples, hoping to find some sort of relief from this madness. It’s worse than it’s been in a while, meaning something horrid is coming on, and you don’t have that little motherfucker here to help out.

They’re screaming. They’re so painfully loud that you think you’re going deaf. _END IT. END IT NOW. THEY DON’T NEED YOU. THEY DON’T NEED HIM. WE NEED YOU. FUCKING END IT YOU PATHETIC PIECE OF SHIT._

You can’t do it. You just can’t. Rapidly shaking your head with your hands over your ears, you slide off the bed and to the floor, landing on your knees with a small *thump* against the cement (that the school tried to design to make creepier, not that you or your brother mind it. The scarier, the better. Means no one will try coming in anytime soon).

Your heart starts to pound as they just grow loud enough to the point that it starts blinding your vision, white flashing in your head. It all starts turning into white noise, screeching and you flinch, curling up. Slowly, biting your lip so hard that blood starts trickling down your chin, you lean forward and rest your forehead against the cool concrete. Maybe the temperature difference will help bring you back to Earth; help keep you grounded.

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. It’s okay. You’re okay. Gam will be back soon.

_NO. NO HE FUCKING WON’T. HE AIN’T NEVER COMING BACK. GONNA DIE ALONE, AREN’T YA? GONNA CRY, LITTLE BITCH? CRY LIKE THE PIECE OF SHIT YOU ARE? THROW YOURSELF AGAINST THE GROUND. DO IT, DO IT! NO NO DON’T. STAY STILL. DON’T MOVE, DON’T BREATHE._

The fact that you can even comprehend any of this is a miracle in itself, though you wish you couldn’t hear them anymore. You wish the white noise would drown them out like it did seconds ago. Piercing screams are better than the poisonous words they spill in the most brilliant way, that you start to crumble like an old brick New York building from the industrial revolution.

You try to obey them as much as you can, holding in your breath and choking back a sob. What are these? Tears? Something so foreign to your body that you feel ashamed of letting them out. Salty water daring to escape your eyes in gushing streams of pity and self-loathing.

_Garbage._

It isn’t true. Tell yourself that. Tell yourself it isn’t true, like Gamzee always does, like Alistair does for you. TELL YOURSELF! TELL YOURSELF THAT IT’LL ALL BE ALRIGHT!

_Shut up._

Even if you had the ability to talk, you wouldn't be able to now. It’s too much. You can feel yourself choking and gagging and dry heaving, putting too much effort into holding back these motherfucking heinous sobs.

Distract yourself. You need to distract yourself before this gets worse and outright sickening. Busy your hands so they don’t find way to your skull again. You can’t manage to write, nor can you focus your attention and energy on violin or cello. Maybe something else…

Even if it’ll involve a lot of cleanup, you rise to your feet and grab the lamp from the nightstand, jerking it from the outlet it’s plugged into. In a swift movement, your arm swings to the side and your hand opens up, releasing the glass light and launching it at the wall. For a split second, the voices are silenced, sweet sound of shattering porcelain against the wall filling up the empty space in your ears.

But it only lasts a second. That’s how it naturally is.

You need to do it again. You can’t let them have their way. Gripping the lamp on the other side of the room, Gamzee’s side of the room, you repeat the action, shards scattering along the floor. The larger pieces crunch beneath your bare feet; you don’t care anymore. The pain helps silence them. You can’t feel it at this point, blood boiling and heart racing, making you dizzy.

Feeling the thick redness slowly starting to well up on the bottoms of your feet, they return. The click of the door unlocking doesn't register in your mind as you fall to your knees. Glass splinters and digs into your dark chocolate skin through the fabric of your thin pajama bottoms with the print of white skulls and the base color of black, ties always left undone.

There’s a voice in the background that you can’t process, one of panic and worry as fingers begin to touch your arms. You can’t remove your hands from your ears to properly comprehend who it even is, nor can you open your eyes. If you did, they’d get mad. They’ll get mad at it all. The fact that you’re still breathing is upsetting.

You curl back up in the previous position and finally cave, knowing that, if you black out, they’ll be silenced. At least for now.

Lifting your head just enough, you slam it back down against the ground and everything goes silent, just for that moment that your forehead connects with the cold cement. _DO IT AGAIN. DO IT. FUCKING DO IT._

More than happy to comply.

Mercilessly, you repeat the action until your mind starts to go blank and your vision behind your eyelids turns into rainbows of all varieties. The hands touching you are now trying to block each hit, though you’ve thrown yourself at the floor enough that it’s hurting them as well to lessen each blow. Their fingers will break if they keep it up. _scream. SCREAM. MAKE IT KNOWN YOU WANNA DIE. DO IT. DO IT. NO DON’T. YES DO IT. QUIT MOVING. DO IT. SCREAM._

With that, you release a blood-curdling, shrill howl of agony, claw-like nails digging into the backs of your ears. They draw blood, blazing against your skin as it fills the wound and spills over, just like your waterfall of tears did moments before.

Again and again you wail in anguish, body shaking like a new-fallen leaf at the very end of the autumn season. Despite the burning in your throat, you don’t stop, nowhere near worried about the fact that you could be deafening the person next to you, or alerting neighbors. Nothing registers. Nothing exists. You aren’t even here. This isn’t happening.

It feels like your throat is bleeding, which is what finally gets you to stop. Not the shaking or the actual, physical and panicking yelling in your ear. Not the warm embrace around your body that has yet to leave, squeezing tight and crushing your chest. Breath escapes you and you begin to wheeze, trying to inhale again like a normal person should. Whoever it is finally loosens their grip and sighs, as if they’re disappointed. Or relieved. You go with disappointed.

Able to finally see, though it takes a few minutes to regain the sense, you turn your head just enough to see the face. Gamzee’s. Of course it’s Gamzee. He must’ve raced downstairs once he heard you and to your side the minute he came in. That’s what the click was. He’s who the hands belonged to. He tried to help, even if he entered at too late of a time. You smile just a bit, tilting your head and he returns the smile with one of his own, warm and welcoming unlike the norm. It’s different. It’s a smile only you get to see.

The flow of water speeds up again as you break out into a garbled sob, his arms around you once more. You feel your body tremble as you break down against him, hiding the weeping in his inner shoulder. Tears begin to soak his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to give a flying motherfuck. He just rubs your back and hums to alleviate you.

What seems hours later, which it may very well be, you calm and peel yourself off of him, quickly wiping at your face and silently forcing your body to regain composure and the usual attitude of a stoic bastard. His eyes are full of worry, you can just feel it as he stares. You can feel the pity. You can feel the ache in his heart. His uncertainty makes you feel just a bit better. It helps that he cares so much.

The voices are silent as he stands and grabs the bag from his bed, which he must’ve tossed it on the moment he stepped into the room. How frustrated he must be right now, you won’t know until later. You know he won’t talk about it now. So damn angry at you… You could’ve handled yourself. You could’ve. You’re just weak. Fucking weak.

Gamzee pulls you from your thoughts by a nudge of a black, plastic bowl with a clear lid, tilting it down just a bit to show the contents. Your favorite salad, even though you can’t taste it, and it takes a little more effort to eat. You like the challenge. You enjoy being just a little more normal than usual. Having everything blended up gets tiring.

You sign a, ‘thank you,’ and take it, along with the matching black fork and open it up, immediately digging in. As he sits down beside you, thoughts disappear, a smile on your face. He’s your bright little miracle through listless times and dark images, able to pick you up when down no matter what the situation, given you’re not like this very often. Guess that’s the benefit of having such a close brother, right?


End file.
